


The Watcher

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Other, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac





	The Watcher

_**Harry Potter: Percy/Hand**_  
Percy/Hand + other  
NC17  
Kinks: brothels, voyeurism, wanking  
~1500 words  
  
  
  
  
He went to watch. He only went to watch. They knew he was there – it wasn’t like he was perverted or anything. He just liked to watch, and Madam X’s was the only place he knew of where you could go, no questions asked, no inferences implied, and watch a couple of men get it on with each other.  
  
Madam X liked it. She told him so; told him he was good for business, for bringing in the exhibitionists who wanted to show off, who loved the sexual high of knowing that there was someone there, watching and (no doubt in their opinion) admiring their finesse, their technique.  
  
“But no names,” she said in the husky foreign accent that he was certain was fake. “I always insist. Not the name. They agree to you, you to them, but neither know the name. Private, you understand.”  
  
He understood. Private might have been his first, let alone his middle, name.. And as for them – no, he did not want to know the names of men who paid for sex; and homosexual sex at that.  
  
For he wasn’t gay. Indeed, the very thought of getting that close to another man – of sharing such personal space, let along the revolting thought of swapping bodily fluids – repulsed him. If – and quite frankly he doubted that it would ever be the case, especially after his less than inspiring schoolday experiences with Penelope – he felt the need to bed another person, they would most certainly be female.  
  
This? This was different. He was apart, an independent observer. He had no contact of any kind with the men (he shuddered at the thought); they were just… a vehicle for his entertainment. So he masturbated? He was a man, capable of maturbating to a spellcraft magazine if necessary; it just happened that he preferred this sort of viewing pleasure. And why men? Because his whole soul revolted at the thought of watching a woman ‘perform’ for him. They were delicate, retiring creatures, or ought to be: the sort of brazen hussy who might take pleasure in a watcher held no interest for him. This was entirely - entirely - apart from his own personal sexuality. It was merely an (admittedly unusual) form of escapism.  
  
When Madam X met him, she gave him a warm smile.  
  
“Ah, my child. Welcome, welcome. We have a treat in store for you today; indeed, you will enjoy yourself today, I think.”  
  
Percy privately objected to the familiarity of her speech, but he appreciated her tact in avoiding his name – and the offerings of her establishment were always appreciated too, of course.  
  
“Really?” he said stiffly.  
  
“But yes. And my client – he is willing; my boy, of course, is ever pleased to accommodate.”  
  
He wished she would stop talking and lead him to the small room with its one-way mirror. Now he was here, he was impatient – and his cock, yes, that was impatient, too, straining against his robes – to start, to wait, to watch.  
  
She could see what he was thinking and she smiled.  
  
“Come, child. It is time.”  
  
He nodded, and followed her awkwardly down the corridor. This was the part he found most embarrassing: being shown to his position by a woman who knew (there were no secrets from Madam X) just exactly why he was there. And payment, too. He always paid in advance, hating to see someone afterwards when – yes, all right, it felt like something of a sordid transaction. Which it wasn’t, obviously. It wasn’t as if he actually did anything, after all: all he did was watch.  
  
With attempted casualness he pulled the galleons out of his pocket and handed them over. He had been here enough not to need to ask the price, which saved an awkward conversation. Madam X smiled at him once more, patted his hand, and left. She knew his preferences by now.  
  
Alone, he stood, hand almost idly stroking his cock as he waited for his entertainment to show. When they did, he gasped aloud: the two men were hodded and masked, but except for these coverings they were naked. And their bodies…! One was clearly younger than the other and Percy thought that he had never seen a finer specimen of manhood. In an aesthetic sense, of course, he thought as his hand rubbed tenderly up and down his erect cock.  
  
Then – oh! – the bodies were pressed up against each other, one erection pushing against another; the hands of the younger man roving over the other’s body, halting, teasing, fingering his arse.  
  
This was what Percy loved – the anonymity, the plain animality of body against body, no awkward emotions clouding the issue, no expectation of tender words, of empathy, of that fools’ paradise other people called love. Here, it was all about bodies: the feel of one against another; the desperation, the fascination that sexual intercourse had for the human race.  
  
He watched as the two men humped against each other’s legs, as the grunting and groaning became louder; as the gestures became so much more explicit, bringing them both (and Percy) that much closer to the edge.  
  
“Oh yes,” he murmured; and  
  
“Oh yes,” he found himself echoed in the younger man as he dropped to his knees in front of the other. “Let me,” the young man begged; and  
  
“Let him,” Percy begged, unseen, unheard, watching the younger man lift his mask, seeing the back of his head as he leant forward to take a cock in his mouth, bobbing and bowing as if he were worshipping at the altar of manhood.  
  
His hand began to move faster, and he had to slow himself consciously: it would not do to come too early. There was a technique – almost, a skill - to this: Percy prided himself on his timing, on his ability to halt the moment of ecstasy until the last grains of pleasure had been drained from the entertainment. It was not every man, faced with such a scene, who could hold himself so firmly in check, keeping himself near the brink but with no danger of toppling over it.  
  
The older man clearly had no such talent. Already he was panting heavily as the young man used his tongue in a swirling motion as he sucked. The young man pulled away slightly and looked into the still-masked face of the other.  
  
“Shall I?” he murmured, waiting for permission to continue.  
  
The man caught his breath.  
  
“No… want to… fuck you,” he grunted.  
  
Percy winced. The crudity of language displayed by all too many of the men he’d seen peturbed him. It was one thing to be uninhibited in body; quite another in speech, that mark of civilisation. The young man didn’t seem to share his opinion, however, and was lying on the bed invitingly, his mask still half off.  
  
Percy stilled. Wasn’t there something familiar about…? The man’s face was in shadow, turned away from Percy. As he reached up and pulled his mask back down, Percy told himself that he was being ridiculous. He would never have anything in common with the type of men who frequented this place, paying for sex – let alone with the staff. Perhaps he had seen him here before? But Percy was sure he would have remembered that incredible, vital body had he seen it before.  
  
His train of thought ceased as the older man lowered himself over the younger. Percy could see the sweat beading around the edges of his mask; could see the muscles tensing, and the huge, beautiful, erect and throbbing cock. He glanced down at his own, heated and hard across the palm of his hand. Would the man be gentle, tender, with the white skin of his partner, or would he force himself inside, marking the man as his own? Percy had seen both before: it was the diversity as much as anything that he loved; the idea that one process – sex – could be split into so many possibilities.  
  
Ah, the man was lubricating his fingers, lubricating the young man’s arse. And now thrusting with his hand… Percy’s eyes were transfixed, though his hand never stilled… with one finger, two, and now – oh, now! That moment when he plunged in, when Percy could her the gasp-groan of the men’s pleasure and pain. And he timed himself with the movements of the pair, one stroke to every thrust he watched; increasing the pressure as he saw by the men’s expressions that they were drawing close to fulfilment. One came, then the other; finally Percy, dragging his enjoyment to its full potential.  
  
And as they lay, sated, on the bed, the young man lifted his mask and stared, unknowingly, through the one-way mirror into the eyes of his horrified brother.


End file.
